Half a Rogue eBook

“Some men marry actresses to gratify their vanity;
does this man love you?”

“Yes; and he will make me what Heaven intended
I should be—­a woman. Oh, I have uttered
no deceit. This man will take me for what I am.”

“And you have come here to-night to ask me to
forget, too?” There was no bitterness in his
tone, but there was a strong leaven of regret.
“Well, I promise to forget.”

“It was not necessary to ask you that,”
generously. “But I thought I would come
to you and tell you everything. I did not wish
you to misjudge me. For the world will say that
I am marrying this good man for his money; whereas,
if he was a man of the most moderate circumstances,
I should still marry him.”

“And who might this lucky man be? To win
a woman, such as I know you to be, this man must have
some extraordinary attributes.” And all
at once a sense of infinite relief entered into his
heart: if she were indeed married, there would
no longer be that tantalizing doubt on his part, that
peculiar attraction which at one time resembled love
and at another time was simply fascination. She
would pass out of his life definitely. He perfectly
recognized the fact that he admired her above all
other women he knew; but it was also apparent that
to see her day by day, year by year, his partner in
the commonplaces as well as in the heights, romance
would become threadbare quickly enough. “Who
is he?” he repeated.

“That I prefer not to disclose to you just yet.
What are you going to call your new play?” with
a wave of her hand toward the manuscript.

“I had intended to call it Love and Money, but
the very name presages failure.”

“Yes, it needs the cement of compatibility to
keep the two together.”

“Well, from my heart I wish you all the best
luck in the world,” he said, the absence of
any mental reservation in his eyes. “You
would make any man a good wife. If I weren’t
a born fool—­”

She leaned toward him, her face suddenly tense and
eager.

“—­if I weren’t a born fool,”
with a smile that was whimsical, “I’d
have married you myself, long ago. But fate has
cut me out for a bachelor.” He knocked
the ash from a cold pipe, filled and lighted it.
“By the way,” he said, “I received
a curious letter to-day.” Its production
would relieve the awkwardness of the moment. “Would
you like to see it?” opening the drawer and
handing the letter to her. “It’s
one of the few letters of the sort I’m going
to keep.”

She accepted the letter, but without any spirit of
interest. For a moment a thought had all but
swept her off her feet; yet she realized instantly
that this thought was futile. Warrington did not
love her; and there was nothing to do but to follow
out the course she had planned. She had come
to him that night with a single purpose in mind:
to plumb the very heart of this man who was an enigma
to every woman he met. She had plumbed it.
Warrington loved nobody but Warrington and pleasure.
Oh, he was capable of the grand passion, she very well
knew, but the woman to arouse it had not yet crossed
his path.